In what feels like the blink of an eye, I transitioned from being a national champion swimmer and a collegiate coach to cheering on my son, 11-year-old Jack, at his first swim meet. The years have flown by; I once conquered the clock, but now it seems to be racing past me.
Jack started his swim journey at the Burlington YMCA when he was just 2 years old. He firmly declared he would never join the swim team—no racing for him! He reiterated this commitment year after year, as he progressed through the swim levels at his own leisurely pace. Even while we lived in Abu Dhabi, Jack continued his slow advancement at the Gulf Swim School, still adamant about avoiding competition.
From the moment he was born, Jack has never been one for rushing—taking nearly 36 hours to make his grand entrance. I joked with my team at James Madison University in 2004 that a sprinter had somehow produced a distance swimmer.
Then, just before we returned to Vermont in mid-June, Jack surprised me by expressing an interest in joining the swim team. I immediately signed him up on the YMCA website, practically bursting with excitement.
As I watched Jack’s first practice sessions, I was amazed by his natural endurance. He swam lap after lap, maintaining a steady pace even when fatigue set in. While he did collide with lane lines and fellow swimmers a few times, he simply shrugged it off. He practiced diving from the blocks, resulting in some amusing belly flops and goggle mishaps. He wasn’t exactly a fish in water, but he was finding his way.
On the evening of June 23, 2015, the moment I never expected arrived—Jack was set to compete in his first meet. A small smile graced his face as he approached the starting block for the 50-yard backstroke. I couldn’t help but wipe away tears of joy. My roles for the evening were simple: be his mom and also serve as a timer.
The other parents had no clue about my swimming background—I had been a Florida State High School Champion, a National Record Holder, and an Olympic Trials Qualifier. As I learned to operate the stopwatch, I kept my own history to myself, not wanting to revisit the pressure I had endured for two decades.
Jack swam with an even, steady stroke, mostly staying in his lane. Unfortunately, he turned onto his stomach halfway through, resulting in a disqualification—a detail he didn’t seem to notice. I briefly considered confronting the official, but I reminded myself that this sport, like life, can be unforgiving. I felt a swell of emotion, realizing how the lessons from the pool had shaped me, and could potentially do the same for Jack.
Next up was the 50-yard breaststroke, an event I had excelled in during my own swimming days. Despite finishing last, Jack wore a beaming smile throughout the race. He even shook hands with his fellow competitors after finishing, and I was relieved to see they waited for him before exiting the pool. Sadly for me, he was disqualified again for not touching the wall with both hands—another rule he hadn’t quite grasped.
Even as tears fell for his efforts and satisfaction with his performance, I found myself reflecting on my own parents, who had been my unwavering supporters throughout my swimming journey. I thought of my mom, who juggled early morning workouts, afternoon practices, and competitions across the country while maintaining her full-time job. I also remembered my father, who had kept track of my times and records, now gone due to Alzheimer’s disease. Standing in his place, I committed Jack’s times to memory, hoping they would last.
Jack’s final race was the 50-yard freestyle, my signature event. As he approached the blocks, he calmly mentioned he was ready for a hot dog. Regardless, he swam well, finishing next-to-last but without any disqualification this time. I enveloped him in a hug, repeating, “I am so proud of you.” Tears flowed once more as I realized I’d forgotten to note the time of the competitor in my lane, so I stepped aside for another parent to help.
Jack brushed off my praise and headed straight for the snack bar. I rummaged through my wallet, finding six quarters and one Rupee—remnants of our recent trip to India to see the Taj Mahal. I chuckled at the absurdity of our adventures, whether in a far-off land or right here on a Vermont pool deck. Miraculously, $1.50 was enough for one hot dog, and I left the Rupee as a tip, laughing with Jack.
Who cries at a kids’ swim meet, I wondered? The answer was clear: a mother whose life has been intertwined with water and speed, now witnessing her child take his first tentative strokes in those same challenging yet rewarding waters.
In Summary
From a national champion swimmer to the proud parent at her son’s swim meet, this journey reflects the love and lessons passed from one generation to the next. As Jack navigates the world of swimming, he carries with him the legacy of endurance and passion, making each moment in the pool a cherished memory for both mother and son.